The Wild Marigolds of Seven Rivers, New Mexico

James and Charlotte Bealson lived east of Seven Rivers, New Mexico, on a bluff overlooking the Pecos River. Charlie, James had given her that nickname years before, had picked the spot eight years prior because of the field of wild marigolds that grew there. She had never seen a marigold before they got to Seven Rivers, but once she had, that's all she wanted to look at.

Though they were from the city, city life never really settled in either one of them. They were adventurers at heart, and what was more adventurous than hitching up a wagon and heading west? Farming in the arid fields of New Mexico wasn't easy, but James and Charlie were determined to make life work for them. They built a modest house and began a small farm of beets and squash. They worked side by side in that field every day. It wasn't much, but it was enough for them, and after eight years, they had settled into a comfortable, quiet life.

In addition to the crops they grew, they had three cows that provided them with enough milk to use and sell in town. James would help others in exchange for money or food or some goods that might be useful on the farm when things were slow. Their second year there, James worked an entire month on someone else's farm in exchange for an old rocking chair that he gave to Charlie for Christmas. It quickly became her favorite possession. When the chores were done for the day, Charlie would sit in that chair on the back porch and watch as the last rays of sunlight gently kissed her marigolds.

It was a good life, and James and Charlie were happy until that fateful day.

James had gone into town to sell some of their vegetables and milk. Usually, James and Charlie would make the trip together, but they were planning on getting some chickens soon, and Charlie wanted to work on the little coup they were building. The sun was beginning to set as James started for home; he suspected Charlie had finished her work for today and was sitting out back watching her marigolds as dinner cooked on the fire.

Off in the distance, he saw a group of men riding hard and fast towards him. This part of New Mexico was well known for gangs, but James and Charlie lived an isolated life, and it had never been a problem for them. These men looked like they were on a mission, though, so James wasn't about to take any chances. He pulled his wagon as far off the dirt road as he could and kept his head down as they galloped past him. He only caught a brief glimpse, but it was enough to recognize the face of a man he had seen on posters all over town for the past two years. Jon "Pastor Jon" McAuliffe was notorious throughout the New Mexico Territory as one of the more ruthless outlaws. He didn't discriminate between rich or poor; if Pastor Jon saw something he liked, he took it; if Pastor Jon saw something he didn't like, he destroyed it. This rule applied to things and people equally.

Seeing Pastor Jon's face sent a chill down James's spine. They were coming from the direction of his home. He spurred the horse and rode home as quickly as he could, praying that they had missed his property. The smoke he saw billowing up from the direction of his property told him that God was not listening to him that day. His only hope was that Charlie had made it to the storage cellar James had built into the ground behind the marigolds. He had put it there just in case something ever went wrong, and they needed a place to hide. This was that wrong he had hoped would never happen.

As he neared the burning house, he leaped from his horse and charged inside, calling Charlie's name as he did. The smoke was thick, but the room was small. She wasn't there. He rushed out back and saw her rocking chair smashed into pieces. He screamed Charlie's name, and all that came back to him was silence. His panic became overwhelming.

He rushed towards the cellar and came up short in the middle of the marigolds when he saw Charlotte lying there. He rushed to her side and screamed in agony when he turned her over to see her lifeless eyes staring back at him. Her dress was torn open, and she had been shot once in the heart. James knew what they had done.

James sat there in that field of wild marigolds caressing Charlie's hair and telling her how much he loved her and how much of a better man she had made him.

James held Charlie silently until the tears had run dry. He laid her gently on the ground and headed for his cellar. Once inside, he opened a small, barely noticeable trap door. James reached down and pulled out a canvas bag hidden inside. He closed the trap door and grabbed a blanket from the corner.

James walked back to Charlie and knelt beside her. He gave her one final kiss before covering her body with the blanket.

"I'm sorry," James whispered.

This final goodbye broke the trance-like state James had been in, and rage began to build inside of him, a fury that had been dormant for 20 years.

What the people of Seven Rivers, New Mexico, didn't know about James Bealson was that he was a killer. For four years, James "Slim Jim" Bealson had terrorized the Confederacy without them ever knowing. James had spent his service in the Union behind enemy lines, often disguised as a soldier in gray, systematically disrupting every aspect of Confederate life and killing anyone that got in his way.

He had met Charlie after the war, and she had quelled that fury before it had consumed him, but she was gone now, and there was nothing to stop him.

James opened his canvas bag and began pulling out the items from within. In total, he had a rifle, two pistols, a Bowie knife that he had taken from a dead Confederate Colonel, and a sword that had been given to him personally from General Grant for his service to the country. James had counted 18 men among Pastor Jon's gang when they had ridden past him. He had 20 bullets, more than enough.

James equipped himself with his arsenal, detached his horse from the carriage, and rode away from his still burning house.

When James got to town, he headed straight for the saloon. He knew that if any of them were still in town, then that's where they'd be. He swung open the saloon doors and headed to the bar.

"Hey, James, I wasn't expecting to see you in again today," said the barkeep.

James was stone-faced, "Any of Pastor Jon's men in here?"

The barkeep pointed to a corner table where five men sat drinking and laughing.

"And the rest?" James asked.

"At the hotel, I'm guessing," said the barkeep.

"Thanks, Bob," said James.

James turned towards the men, drew his pistols, and fired one bullet into each of their skulls before they ever had the chance to move.

James nodded towards Bob, the barkeep, as he left the saloon and headed towards the hotel. A crowd had begun to gather on the streets after hearing the gunfire and everyone saw James, pistols away and his rifle at the ready, heading towards the hotel.

Word had reached Pastor Jon before James got to the hotel because as soon as James stepped into the lobby, a bullet ripped through his shoulder. Adrenaline and rage drove James at this point, so he didn't even flinch; he just pointed his gun towards the shooter and put a bullet in his throat.

Chaos ensued. Bullets began flying everywhere, and James calmly fired back. He never missed his mark. His sharpshooter instincts guided every shot safely into the flesh of his enemies: one bullet, one dead man.

The fight took no more than two minutes, but the carnage was immense. Lifeless bodies littered the lobby of that hotel. James had four bullets left which meant there were two of Pastor Jon's gang still breathing.

"PASTOR JON!" James yelled.

There was silence.

"PASTOR JON!" James called again louder and angrier.

James sensed motion to his right and raised his pistol. A man rose with his hands up.

"You're not Pastor Jon."

"Na..no…no, sir. I'm not. I run with him tho..." James put a bullet in his head before he could finish his sentence.

"PASTOR JON!"

A man came out of one of the bedrooms upstairs.

"I know your face," James said calmly.

"Who are you?" Pastor Jon asked with a mix of fear and curiosity.

"Come down, Pastor Jon, or I'll come up; makes no difference to me."

"Why should I?" asked Pastor Jon.

"Because I can put a bullet in your eye from here before you have the chance to blink," James replied.

Pastor Jon considered his options and decided that going down might be his best odds. He walked down the stairs, never taking his eyes off James.

He stood ten feet from James.

"Guns or knives, Pastor Jon? Your choice," James said.

Pastor Jon looked around at his dead men. It was an easy choice.

"Knives."

James pointed his pistol towards the ground and fired off his last three shots. He dropped his guns and rifle. Pastor Jon pulled a small knife from his belt as James pulled his Bowie knife from behind his back. Pastor Jon knew he was in trouble.

Pastor Jon charged toward James, who barely moved as he deflected his opponent's knife and ran his own across Pastor Jon's belly. Pastor Jon screamed in agony.

Pastor Jon spun quickly and dived at James. James pushed Pastor Jon aside while slashing his back. Pasto Jon cried out from the pain.

"Who are you?!" Pastor Jon pleaded.

James felt no need to give Pastor Jon anything. He took a quick step and drove his knife into Pastor Jon's belly and twisted; Pastor Jon crumbled to the floor. James straddled his chest and leaned in close to his face.

"I'm your devil," James whispered.

Pastor Jon's eyes grew wide as James slid the knife across his throat.

As the life drained from Pastor Jon, James winced with pain. With his rage sated, the pain became real. He had been shot three times; he hadn't even felt the second two. James stood and stumbled. A man he knew rushed to steady him.

"You ok, James?"

"Just get me to my horse; I gotta get home," James replied.

The man obliged and helped James to his horse. James began the ride home. With each bump, more blood drained from his body, but it didn't matter. His house was smoldering when he got home, and he could see where he had left Charlie.

He dismounted and smacked his horse on the hindquarter sending him running.

Blood dripped from his hands as he walked.

He could see the gentle kiss of the setting sun on her flowers as he knelt beside his wife.

"I'm tired, Charlie."

James laid down and let the sun settle on his face; it felt warm as his body grew cold. He pulled Charlie's body close to him, and he felt at peace. He kissed her head, and it was there, among the wild marigolds of Seven Rivers, New Mexico, that James Bealson took his final breath.